


a bitter glory

by Ias



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Friends to Enemies, Long-Term Relationship(s), Love/Hate, M/M, Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-09-16 00:21:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9265526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ias/pseuds/Ias
Summary: If I can’t have love, if I can’t have peace,Grant me a bitter glory.Creation and destruction are two sides of the same coin. For Galen and Krennic, it has always been so.





	1. Chapter 1

_13 BBY_

It was the smell, more than anything, which nearly undid him.

Galen controlled his breathing. Inhale for five seconds, hold for two, then exhale through the nasal cavity for the count of seven. _Five, two, seven_. Simple. His mind toyed with the numbers with vague and manic interest. It was easier than focusing on the metallic tang of air processed through the shuttle’s chemical scrubbers. The T-3c model was practically an antique, and its filtration system left the air with a distinct taste. A clear, sharp crispness that sat under Galen’s tongue like the tip of a knife, and threatened to drag him into a past he’d sworn to forsake.

Underneath it, the sour smoke of charred flesh. He tightened his grip on Lyra’s hand.

It was cold—already so cold. Galen found himself cupping both hands around it as if he could warm it for her. _Five, two seven_.

“We’ll be dropping out of hyperspace soon.”

Krennic’s voice was like a metal file grating on a raw nerve. Galen refused to raise his head.

After a moment Krennic huffed a sigh. A note of annoyance tinged his words. “Sulking is beneath you, Galen. I admit, this isn’t how I imagined our reunion—but you can hardly blame me for what happened.”

Silence was Galen’s only weapon; he used it mercilessly. His eyes bored into the floor, but through his peripheral vision he inspected the man on the other side of the shuttle. Krennic’s left arm hung uselessly in a sling, a black smear on his crisp white uniform where the blaster fire had struck his shoulder. If he wasn’t in pain, he would be soon. Galen almost laughed. The sound bottled up like a fist in his throat.

“There was never a doubt in my mind that we would work together again.” Krennic shifted in his seat. “Granted, I had hoped it would be under less unfortunate circumstances.”

Galen’s hand clenched tighter. _Unfortunate._ He wanted to spit that word back in Krennic’s face like a hot ember. He wanted to leap up and strike him. But doing that would mean letting go of the body.

The body. Not Lyra’s body. Easier to think of them as two separate things, his wife and the strange thing she had left behind: this simulacrum with her face. Jyn, his stardust, had left nothing behind at all.

His thoughts shied away from what he couldn’t yet face, reaching for any distraction. He could analyze the different chemical tracers in the ship’s air filtration system, could estimate the efficiency of its operations when compared to more updated models. It would have been easy to lose himself in strings of numbers and data, to escape the barren silence he’d imposed on his mind since bringing his family to Lah’mu.

_You brought them to die._

“What matters is that you’re back,” Krennic continued, brushing off his regretful tone like an unpleasant insect from his clothing. “Now, the real work can begin.”  

At last Krennic fell quiet. The air felt too empty, as if waiting for something to fill it. Galen’s hand clutched Lyra’s so tightly a pathetic part of him was afraid of hurting her, and a smaller, darker part wished that he could. Grief reeled wildly through his mind and stumbled into fury instead. This should never have happened. If Lyra had done as he’d asked, if she’d only followed the _plan_ —

Slowly, he forced his grip to loosen. Such thoughts were born from guilt rather than truth.

When Krennic spoke again, his voice was so quiet Galen almost didn’t hear it.

“Wait until you see it.” 

It was the change in his tone that finally made Galen look up. Krennic’s eyes were fixed on his face, gleaming with a fervent hunger. Once Galen might have returned that expression. This was the man who had fallen into step on the path to Galen’s future as naturally as if they had always had the same destination. The memory of their shared ambition sickened him now.

At once, the feeling of being slowed, compressed, of flesh made impossibly dense and heavy settling onto his bones. They were dropping out of hyperspace. The smile on Krennic’s lips broadened. He rolled his neck, and flinched at the pain it caused.

“Come. There’s something I want to show you.”

Galen couldn’t bring himself to look into his wife’s face. Slowly, agonizingly, he forced himself to release her hand and lay it by her side. His own fingers were icy as he turned away. Krennic waited for him with thinly veiled impatience. With so many reasons to despise him, Galen could hardly count the man’s lack of compassion as another. He was too tired, to empty, to do anything but follow.

Krennic led him to the shuttle’s modest observation deck. His fingers kept fluttering to tug at the hem of his gloves. Galen stood beside him and stared out on the cosmos. No sign of Coruscant—Galen glanced at Krennic out of the corner of his eye, but the other man’s gaze was fixed on the stars.

“Do you remember our days in the Republic Futures Program?” Krennic asked. “We were so concerned with what hoped to accomplish. With the legacies we wanted to leave behind.”

Cautiously, Galen nodded. In the distance one of the stars was blooming, pale against the darkness. A small moon, growing closer.

“I promised you that I wouldn’t let your genius go to waste. That together, we would achieve greatness.” Galen felt Krennic turn to him, his eyes fastening on Galen’s face. “I want you to know that I keep my promises.” The moon reared closer, growing before the shuttle like a pallid fever dream. Galen watched it blankly.

Understanding, when it came, billowed up from somewhere deep inside him like it had been there all along, the seed coming to flower at last. Horror and wonder rose like gorge.

Impossible, almost, to grasp what he was seeing before him. A ship—an _idol_ —the size of a small planet, gleaming like a misshapen pearl on a field of black velvet, its surface crossed with tiny avenues which must have been the size of canyons. As the shuttle swung around its orbit he saw the ragged unfinished edges splintering into the dark, the movement of construction ships scuttling over its bare struts like ants on a carcass.

He recognized his own hand in it—that was the most remarkable and appalling thing of all. He could trace its surface with its eyes and summon up the infrastructure beneath its skin, the conduits of power and air and light that flowed through the planetoid like blood. It was alive. He had given it life. And he had not done it alone.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Krennic’s voice came low and reverent in his ear.

Galen swallowed. His throat felt coated with dust, fear tightening its grip on his windpipe. When Lyra first deposited Jyn into Galen’s nervous arms, he had felt something similar to this. A sharp tenderness, a creeping terror. “It is,” he whispered, and was shocked to realize he meant it with every trembling fiber of his being, pride and disgust a tightening lattice around his heart.

Galen would destroy it. That knowledge came to him fully-formed, as if it too had been gestating deep inside him, waiting for its day. Out of hate, out of love, out of devotion, out of vengeance, he would tear his monster apart.  

When Galen met his eyes, Krennic smiled. The expression was sickeningly genuine.

“ _This_ is our legacy, Galen,” he said. He moved as if to reach out, forgetting his injury, only to flinch and let his arm relax into its sling once more. They stood side by side and stared down at the terrible thing they had made, as the shuttle sank towards one of its numerous docking bays like a mouth opening up to swallow them.

He watched Krennic from the corner of his eye, inspecting the devotion that lit up the man’s face like a funeral pyre. “Our legacy,” Galen echoed, and his hand tightened on empty air. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on ages; although canonically Krennic is 5 years younger than Galen (15 and 20 at the start of the Republic Futures Program), the dynamic Catalyst describes seems to represent peers on much more equal terms. As such I've decided to discount the age gap in favor of what we know of their relationship from the canon.

_37 BBY_

From within his cell, Orson heard the hiss of the detention wing’s door opening and pressed the cooling pack harder onto his face. His leg bounced restlessly where he sat, each movement sending miniature jolts of pain through his torso. It was as still as he could keep himself. Adrenaline and frustration urged him to start pacing. It wasn’t that he was _concerned_ —after three years in the Republic Futures Program, this was hardly the first time he’d found himself behind the crude bars of the detention center. The energy of the fight hummed in his veins. He could still feel that insufferable officer-brat’s face crumpling under his fist. Bloody knuckles and another reprimand were a small price to pay for that satisfaction.  

He’d aimed for the mouth. A poor choice in a fight, as likely to break his hand as to break their teeth—but worth the risk to muddle the prim accents the students from Core worlds were so proud of. Orson had not come from officer’s stock, as they were so fond of reminding him. In turn he reminded them that one of the benefits of a rougher upbringing was knowing how to throw a punch.

Voices filtered in from the entryway, vaguely familiar. The newcomer didn’t speak with the clipped, posh tones of a disciplinary officer. Orson lowered the cooling pack and leaned forward to listen.

“…asked to see him immediately. No, not for punishment—I believe he merely wanted to ask some questions about the incident.”

“The program director has never taken an interesting in petty fights before.”

"It seems there was some concern about the nature of the provocation, a question of blame. But honestly, I didn’t ask.”

A pause, followed by a murmur of acquiescence. As the sound of footsteps began to plod in his direction, a slow smile began to spread over Orson’s bloodied lips. He set the cool pack on the bench beside him just as Galen Erso stepped into view.

Galen’s expression did not change as he inspected the swollen and bloody ruin where Orson’s face was supposed to be—after all, Galen had been fighting at his side when it happened. As the officer unlocked the door and slid it open Orson climbed gingerly to his feet. Walking would be an uncomfortable endeavor, but they wouldn’t see him limp.

The officer didn’t so much as spare him a glance. “Make sure you take him straight to administrations,” she said to Galen firmly.

“Of course.”  Galen guided Orson past the officer with a firm hand on his arm, head high, playing the part of a rule-abiding messenger boy remarkably well for someone without a dramatic bone in his body. The reason so many underestimated Galen Erso—and Orson had done the same—was his tendency to silence. People did not question what thoughts might be swarming beneath the young man’s placid exterior. He was quiet. He was not innocent. And sometimes, he was not even kind.

They didn’t head towards the administrative wing. In unspoken agreement, they both made their way towards Galen’s quarters. Galen waited until they were well out of earshot before a smile touched his lips. “Well,” he said lightly. “That was easier than I expected.”

Orson laughed, and then winced at the jolt of pain in his chest. One of the brats must have kicked him in the ribs while he was down. He’d remember that, next time. “You’re a terrible liar, Galen. I could practically hear you sweating from the other room.”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

“It helps that you’re the golden boy.”

Galen shot him one of those looks. “I’m the scholarship boy.”

“Exactly. Everyone loves a sob story.”

“They don’t seem to be buying yours.”

Orson laughed at that. He wasn’t doing a very good job of walking straight—the swollen eye played hell with his depth perception. “Ah, well. I’m not really selling it, am I?”

“You could be.” From what little peripheral vision Orson had left, he was pretty sure that Galen was debating whether to grab his arm to steady him. Orson wasn’t sure what he’d do if Galen reached out. Shake him off, or lean in.

“You could make people like you,” he continued. “You have the capacity.”

“Oh, where’s the fun in that?” Orson turned to look Galen up and down. “How’s the stomach?”

Galen grimaced. “Bruised. Dagio favors a swift undercut.”

“Something to remember for the next time.”

Galen stared down at his feet as he walked, a frown deepening on his brow. “I _can_ look after myself, Orson. You don’t need to leap to my defense every time someone comments on my accent.”

“They had plenty to say about mine as well.” A flare of pain Orson’s ribs made him stumble again. Without hesitation Galen reached out to loop an arm around his back. It was not so difficult to swallow his pride and let Galen help him along.

“Don’t pretend you care what they say about you,” Galen said. “Part of you enjoys this.”

“Someone needs to put them in their place.”

Galen shook his head with a sigh as they drew close to his door. “You might find more benefit in studying rather than trying to fist-fight your way up the social hierarchy.”

Orson snorted. “It’s not just status I’m interested in. You should know that.” Galen released Orson’s back at last to wave his hand over the door’s sensor, and Orson walked in without breaking his train of thought. “It doesn’t matter how smart you are if you don’t have any influence,” he continued, walking up to Galen’s couch and sprawling across it. As soon as he was slightly horizontal, his muscles began to throb anew.

Galen shuffled around in his cabinets for a moment, his voice muffled. “Just as influence is useless without knowledge to apply it to.” When he straightened up and turned around he had a packet of swabs and a tube of something medicinal.

Orson eyed him sourly. “ _Really_ , Galen?”

“No complaining,” Galen said sternly. “Your face looks like something they’d slap on a tray at dinner.”

Rolling his eyes brought on a fresh jab of pain as Galen settled on the couch at Orson’s side. “Is that concern for my wellbeing I detect? Or maybe you just want to keep me easy on the eyes.”

“I always did love a lost cause.” He set to wiping the worst of the blood away from Orson’s face. Galen’s expression was still and concentrated, the way he looked when he was reading an interesting book. As Galen focused on the rearranged anatomy of his face, Orson focused on him.

“That’s why we have to stick together,” Orson said.

“Stop moving your face,” Galen murmured, his eyes still fixed on his work.

“We’re an excellent team,” Orson continued unconcernedly. “With your genius and my influence, we could achieve whatever we set our minds to.”

Galen kept dabbing at the wounds on Orson’s face, but from the flicker in his eyes Orson knew he was listening. “And what is it you want to accomplish?”

“Everything!” Orson threw his hands up in frustration, and grimaced as half the muscles in his body cried out as a result. Galen tugged his arms back to his side with a look. “There’s so much that I would change if I had the means to do it,” Orson continued. “Just look at all that’s wrong with the Senate. Fear, conflict, greed, corruption—”

“And you’re the one to make it right,” Galen said with a poorly-stifled smile.

Orson looked at him. “Why not?” he said simply.

Galen shrugged, and set aside the bloody medical swabs. “I don’t often think of my future. If I can live a quiet life devoted to my studies and my work, that will be enough.”

“We could do so much more than that.” Orson stared up at the ceiling, his feet tapping restlessly where they dangled off the couch. “We could make our mark on the galaxy.”

With a finger, Galen began dabbing the medical salve onto Orson’s cuts. It hurt, but Orson didn’t flinch. “You’re ambitious,” Galen said quietly.

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

“I didn’t mean it as a criticism.”

“It sounded like one. Ambition is unattractive. No one likes a self-announced visionary.”

“And do you consider yourself one?”

Orson laughed. “There’s no good answer to that question, is there?”

Galen smiled and lowered his hand, finished with Orson’s cuts at last. In response Orson slowly levered himself up into a sitting position and clasped Galen by the shoulder. His knuckles stood out against Galen’s grey tunic, a bloom of red. “I’ll tell you one thing, Galen: if I have a vision for the future, both of us are in it together.”

"Perhaps that's a future I wouldn't mind so much." Galen's eyes were soft. With fastidious care, he gathered up the stained bandages and wiped the final smears of Orson’s blood from his fingers.


	3. Chapter 3

_13 BBY_

 

“Explain the exact parameters of your incompetence again.”

Krennic’s fingers clenched and extended at his side, out of view of the HoloNet reader. It was the command as much as the insult which made his blood boil. Rendered in shades of sickly blue, Grand Moff Tarkin’s gaunt face was stricken with the beginnings of a noxious smile.

Krennic twisted his neck and forced his lips into a tight line. Let Tarkin have his illusions of control—the time would come when Krennic would not need him anymore. The thought of how utterly Tarkin would be destroyed was all that kept Krennic’s temper under control.

“There was a problem with the Station’s core structural grid,” Krennic said, scarcely unclenching his teeth enough to let the words grit past. “With some simple design modifications—”

“I am not interested in how you will clumsily cover up your mistakes, Director. My report to Emperor Palpatine will not concern them.”

Krennic’s nostrils flared. “In two weeks all will be—”

“And what of the scientist?” Tarkin interrupted. “You squandered valuable resources for quite some time in order to scrape what was left of him off of that rock. Your intimations were that he would somehow solve every problem this project has ever face.” Tarkin paused, raising his eyebrows condescendingly. “Yet it appears this Galen Erso has not produced no such magical qualities to date.”

“Erso requires a light touch. I would not expect you to understand the nature of our work.”

“What I understand are results.”

For a brief moment, Krennic allowed himself to entertain the idea of snapping the bureaucrat’s spindly neck. He imagined it would feel like cracking a brittle piece of wood, and the expression of surprise and agony on Tarkin’s face would, of course, be priceless. By the time he had allowed that brief fantasy to play itself out, Krennic was able to speak in a voice that only barely trembled under the strain of controlled fury.

“And you will have them, Governor,” he said with a smile thin enough to jab under a fingernail.

“We shall see.” Tarkin’s eyes were on something out of range of the Holo recorder. Ignoring Krennic already. “If Galen Erso is to be your salvation, I suggest you utilize him now. Should he hesitate to cooperate, the answer is simple: _push him_.”

“I am uninterested in your opinions on how to direct my own scientists,” Krennic snapped.

“Naturally. If you were, you would not have failed.” Tarkin’s projected eyes deigned to meet Krennic’s again, filled with disdain. “This project is slipping through your fingers faster than you can catch it, Director, and I will be waiting when it shatters.”

The HoloVid went dead.

Krennic let one long breath out very slowly through his nose before surging to his feet. Stabbing pain shot through his injured shoulder, but the medication to manage it dulled his wits and he could not afford that luxury now. At such a moment Krennic would have almost welcomed another failure—a subordinate to upbraid, a task to apply himself to, an outlet for his energy. Without any clear goal in mind, he found himself stalking through the hallways of the star destroyer, sending other workers scurrying out of his way. He did not know he had a destination in mind until he was halfway to Galen Erso’s apartments.

He stopped outside the door to collect himself. The guard stayed at attention. Only a formality, really—Krennic did not expect Galen to do anything drastic. But there was much that Krennic had not expected Galen to do, and he was finished with unpleasant surprises. Once he controlled his breathing and forced his jaw to unclench, Krennic punched his code into the door and entered without knocking.

He had thought to wait longer. Galen needed time, and Krennic could respect that; he _had_ respected it, for the two months since Galen had returned. As excited as he was to resume their work, Krennic had forced himself to show restraint. The man was grieving, after all; Krennic had hoped to track down the daughter by now, and present her to Galen as either a token of trust or leverage—whichever the situation required. That too had become another failed exploit, hemorrhaging resources that Tarkin was all too quick to note. Krennic had planned to let Galen come to him, wear him down through time and patience until the man _wanted_ to return to work. But Tarkin’s words beat in Krennic’s ears like a mallet. There was no more time for coddling.

The rooms were spacious, comfortable, attractive—Krennic had personally overseen their furnishing. No one was better qualified to line the nest to coax Krennic’s wayward genius to roost in. And had Galen been grateful? Of course not. But perhaps that too would take time.

Krennic had prepared a living space that would make Galen feel at home, well-stocked with flimsiplast and pens to tempt Galen into fostering his ideas. Unfortunately, the quarters had also been built for a family of three. After the events on Lah’mu, Krennic had quickly had the child’s bedroom converted into an office. There was nothing to be done about all the excess space, the rooms perhaps too large for one person to drift through in silence and solitude.

Krennic strode through them himself, noting that the only thing which had changed since Galen took residence was the smudged flimsiplast strewn on every available surface. Krennic had asked the guards to report the contents of Galen’s notes back to him—it never seemed the man was jotting down anything truly useful.

Krennic paused in the center of the main living area and stooped to lift a diagram off the low table by the couch. The only light in the room came from the window, looking out on a vast field of stars and the bright curve of the Death Star. Its pale light suffused the room in ashy tones, enough to read by. In a neat and exacting hand, Galen had drawn a hexagonal crystal structure not unlike the ones he and Krennic had been experimenting with before Galen’s betrayal.  

Rather than charging off to the other rooms to track down his wayward scientist, Krennic found himself sinking onto the couch and flipping through the rest of the pages before him. None were relevant to the Station, true, but the sight of Galen’s familiar handwriting was soothing. He could almost pretend they were back in Coruscant in the early days of their partnership, plotting out new methods of energy magnification. Perhaps any moment now a young and unburdened Galen would come spring-footed through the door, desperate for something to scrawl the outlines of a new breakthrough onto.

A bitter smile touched his lips. By the time the real Galen came into the room, Krennic was almost entirely calm.

Galen stopped in the doorway as soon as he realized he wasn’t alone. Without lowering the paper he was inspecting, Krennic watched him from the corner of his eye. “Your penmanship is as wanting as ever, Galen. If anything, it’s actually worse.” He let the page drift down onto the table again, and turned to look at Galen directly.

Warily, Galen stepped from the shadows. He kept a healthy amount of distance between Krennic and himself. “I haven’t had much time to practice it these past few years.”

“But I’m sure you could plant me a row of skycorn in record time.”

Galen did not crack a smile. His insistence on stoicism was irritating, yet unsurprising. Something about the beard made him look wild, antagonistic—or maybe it was in the eyes. They glinted in a way that didn’t mesh with any of Krennic’s memories, a hard and steely light reflected from the Death Star beyond the window. “What do you want, Krennic?”

Perhaps it was the crystal diagram which tipped the scales—perhaps it was Tarkin’s warning, more tiresome for the fact that it was genuinely a threat. Perhaps, staring at the man who Krennic had once counted as his closest friend, he merely wanted to reach past the hard shell Galen had built up around himself in the years since they’d seen each other last. A spontaneous decision, but Krennic always trusted his intuition.

He stood up. “I have something to show you.”

There was a time when Galen would not even think of refusing him—not out of fear or duty, but from the excitement that the two of them had shared. There was no spark of delight in Galen’s eyes now. Not even a flicker of interest. When he nodded a concession and followed Krennic to the door, his movements were as slow and shuffling as a droid’s. The anger which had dissipated while he perused Galen’s notes rekindled itself in the pit of Krennic’s stomach. He waved the guard away when she began to fall into step behind them. This would be a private moment. Nothing to get between them.

The walk to their destination was short and silent. Occasionally Krennic would study Galen out of the corner of his eye, wondering whether he had actually broken the man. There were different kinds of broken; some were useful, others were not. If he had been so careless as to crush Galen too completely, if Lyra’s death had affected him so deeply… Krennic’s teeth ground in his jaws. Impossible. He would not believe Galen so fragile.

Krennic could easily recall the funeral, the stiffness in Galen’s shoulders as they gave Lyra’s body to the catacombs. Galen had been back in his Imperial uniform—Krennic had insisted on it. It was important for Galen to remember that he may be burying a part of his old life, but he was returning to something greater. Perhaps Galen did not appreciate it at the time, but Krennic had been confident that the man’s rational mind would win out. Now, as he watched Galen plod through the corridors with his eyes fixed on his feet, Krennic was not so certain.

He banished such thoughts from his mind. In a matter of minutes, he was confident he would have Galen Erso’s full attention.

The door that Krennic stopped at was unguarded and unassuming, but required a much longer code to unlock. “Presently, I’m the only one with the code to access this facility,” Krennic said. As he finished inputting it, the door opened with a hiss of pressurized air. “After today, it will just be you and me.”

Galen did not answer, but studied the door warily. Krennic waved it open and stepped inside, confident now that Galen would follow.

Even after visiting these chambers multiple times while overseeing their creation, Krennic still felt a pleasant warmth squirming in his chest as the lights slowly glowed to life. Rows of counters and hulking machinery resolved themselves out of the darkness, the pale light gleaming on metal so unblemished it seemed to produce its own light. There were crystal-cutters and energy refractors and enough writing boards that even Galen shouldn’t be able to fill them (but he would, of course—he always did). There was a testing range on the far side of the room, and devices to measure any type of data that Krennic’s engineers had imagined. Krennic had even gone so far to include a library, rows of datatapes stacked neatly on the wall along with a massive repository of digital files, all the information Galen could possibly want or need. Krennic took it all in at a glance, but his eyes were only for Galen’s face as he saw his new laboratory for the first time.

“It contains everything that your old lab did, and more,” Krennic said. “Our reach and resources have only grown since you left, Galen. Anything you might need is in this room. If it isn’t, it can be in a matter of days.”

As he spoke, Krennic studied Galen’s reaction. The fact that he was reacting at all was already a victory. Galen’s eyes moved over the cutting-edge equipment with a familiar glint; his fingers twitched at his side, as if restricting the urge to reach out and lay a hand on the gleaming spectrometer on the nearest table. But as Krennic watched, the expression of intellectual greed crumbled—as if it was being dismantled from the inside, and yanked back behind the dull mask that Galen had made his face.

Krennic saw it clearly, then. Galen only wanted him to believe he was broken. Such knowledge conjured a hard smile on Krennic’s lips. He would use it to his advantage.

“You understand what I’m offering you,” Krennic pressed.

Galen stared blankly at the bounty laid out before him. “Are you _offering_ , Krennic?” His voice was quiet.

A flicker of irritation. Still Galen insisted on casting him as the villain. “You want this, Galen. Don’t bother denying it.” Obediently, Galen said nothing. Krennic threw his hands up in exasperation, though the sharp bolt of pain in his shoulder brought his left arm up short. “You cannot possibly be trying to convince me that you would rather be _farming_.”

Galen turned to look at him then. “I had peace, and I had my family. That was enough.”

There was something in his eyes—a flicker of defiance. Krennic could work with that. He took a step closer, holding Galen’s eyes. “Was it enough, Galen? Was it _really_?” The man’s eyes darted away. Krennic had him then. “I know you,” he said softly, as he tilted his head to look into Galen’s face. “I know you’re capable of. And I know that living a simple life of dirt and domesticity would have killed you.”

“That was my choice to make.”

Krennic let out a snarl of aggravation, turning as if to stalk away before thinking better of it. The scant space between them was as intimate as such a subject required. He was running out of options—he needed Galen to cooperate. _Push him_.

“It was Lyra’s choice and you know it,” Krennic said softly. “She turned you against our work, convinced you that slowly letting your mind bleed away into the soil was a better use of your gifts. But the truly remarkable thing, Galen, the thing that I still can scarcely comprehend—is that you _believed_ her.”

Galen twitched as if Krennic had jabbed him with a shock stick, his jaw tightening on whatever excuses threatened to overtake him. Krennic waited for him to speak, neither backing off nor lowering his gaze. He could pick out the strands of grey in Galen’s beard and hair, the fine lines that gathered at his eyes.

“You lied to me, Krennic,” Galen said at last. “Lyra never did.”

A silent laugh spread over Krennic’s face, curdling his expression. “You don’t have to lie to manipulate someone. If I had known you’d prefer it that way, perhaps things would have gone differently.”

“Maybe then you wouldn’t have killed her.” The hatred in Galen’s eyes was almost refreshing; this close, it beamed against Krennic’s face like heat from an energy reactor. He devoured it hungrily.

Krennic shook his head with a rueful smile. “There’s no need to be melodramatic. You used to care for facts, Galen—are you really so eager to overlook them now? I gave your wife every opportunity to save herself. She may as well have pulled the trigger.”

The words had no sooner left his mouth than Krennic felt himself carried backwards, slammed into the wall behind him with a pair of hands gripping the front of his uniform. Galen’s face hung inches from his own, his mouth a hard and furious line. Instinctively Krennic’s hands flew up to grip Galen’s wrists. Hard labor may have been a criminal waste of Galen’s mind, but it had toughened his body more than theorizing ever could. Perhaps Krennic could have fought him off. He didn’t bother to try.

“Now there’s that passion I remember so fondly,” Krennic hissed. “And here I was thinking Lyra had completely drained it out of you—”

The back of his head slammed into the wall as Galen shook him. “Do not speak her name again,” Galen whispered.

Krennic tightened his grip on Galen’s wrists. “Does it make it easier to bear, blaming me?” he said. “Is it more comfortable to think of me as your jailer?” Galen’s eyes flickered over his face as if searching for a piece to tear off. The smile that curled on Krennic’s lips left his eyes dead. “I’m not, Galen. I would much rather be your friend. So if pinning the responsibility of your wife’s death on me is what you need to do, then by all means.” Krennic released his wrists, his hands open and harmless between them. “Do so.”

A calculated risk. But when Galen did not slacken his grip or use his extra leverage to bash Krennic’s brains against the wall, Krennic pushed forward. “I want to help you,” he said. “That is all I have ever wanted. I wish things had ended differently, I really do. But don’t throw away your own future the way that Lyra did. _Think carefully_ —” He said in a warning tone, as Galen’s fists jerked at his uniform.

The words, chosen deliberately, had the effect that Krennic desired. Galen’s eyes widened, ever so slightly. The old grief resurfaced. Galen, after all, had urged his wife to lay her weapons down. It had been Lyra’s stubbornness, her foolishness that made her death necessary.

“And if I refuse what you’re offering me?” Galen said at last.

Krennic tilted his head. “I hadn’t considered the possibility.”

“Liar. If you’re going to threaten me, do it properly.”

“I’m not going to threaten you. I don’t need to. You’re a smart man, Galen. You already understand what will happen if our superiors think you share your wife’s sympathies.” And it was true that Krennic had thought about what would be done then, the small blank room with nothing but a bed and a toilet, no windows, no writing implements, nothing but an empty box for Galen and his demons to dwell in. It would be boredom, and not grief or pain, which would break the man in the end. But Krennic found such scenarios a tasteless necessity. He would do everything possible to avoid them.

“Yes,” Galen said at last. He stared down at his hands on the front of Krennic’s uniform as if debating how they got there. Slowly, his grip released. “I do understand.”

It was guile, and not defeat, that Krennic saw in Galen’s eyes now. This close, it was impossible to miss. Krennic watched Galen’s mind at work with a sharp pang of triumph beneath his ribs. He was not a fool—he knew that Galen would only agree to his terms if the man thought he could use them to his ultimate gain. Krennic was counting on that. Once he had Galen immersed in the joy and pleasure of the work again, Krennic had no doubt that Galen would truly come to see reason. Whatever petty fantasies of revenge he was currently harboring would be revealed as the folly they were. The poison Lyra had dripped into his ears about the nature of their work would be washed away.

The work itself would seduce Galen more efficiently than Krennic’s threats or promises ever could. Galen would be lost to the wild joy and ambition of his own genius, and he would forget he’d ever had reservations. It was one thing he knew would always be true.

And so Krennic was already smiling before Galen straightened up, his face reverting to a familiar cold mask. “It seems you’ve given me no choice,” Galen said. The words rang musically in Krennic’s ears.

He was just opening his mouth to offer some placating sentiment when Galen’s hand slid up to his left shoulder. Unerringly, his thumb settled right over the place where Lyra’s blaster had struck him, hidden beneath his uniform. Galen stared into his eyes and he began to press down.

“However,” he said over the sharp breath that hissed past Krennic’s teeth, “When it comes to my opinions on _you_ , Krennic, you cannot blackmail me into changing my mind. _You are not my friend_.”

Krennic tore away from him with a shout of agony, his right arm flying up to grasp at his shoulder as his left was a dead weight swinging at his side. He stumbled a few steps away from Galen and turned back to fix him with a glare. “Grief is clouding your judgement. For that reason alone, I’ll forgive this.”

Blank-eyed, Galen turned away. He moved off into the lab and began to inspect the— _his_ —new equipment. Krennic watched him for a moment longer, fury and pain beating an entwined melody in his skull, before turning to stalk out of the lab.

“I need two troopers in the primary lab, to escort Galen Erso back to his quarters,” he snapped into his comlink without pausing. Doubt gnawed at the edges of his thoughts—had he misjudged Galen once again? Krennic could still feel his thumb digging into the still-tender blaster wound. He hadn’t known Galen was capable of such cruelty. But then again, perhaps Krennic had taught it to him. And no matter how he might lash out, Galen was too intelligent not to understand his situation. He would do the work. And for now, that was all Krennic needed.

For a brief moment, he considered going to the medical ward. The numbing haze of a bacta tank was almost tempting. Gritting his teeth, he turned the other way—back towards his own quarters. There was much to be organized, with the promise of Galen’s mind put to work behind the project.

 _You are not my friend._ The words rose unbidden in Krennic’s mind once again, accompanied with a twinge of pain. There would be time to address them later. Now, they had all the time in the galaxy. A tight-lipped smile forced its way through the pain. No matter how it felt, today, Krennic had won.


	4. Chapter 4

  _32 BBY_

Afternoon sunlight streamed through the window in Galen's office at the Institute of Applied Sciences, filling the room with lazy heat. Galen hardly felt it. His stylus hung poised over the end of a sentence he had finished some time ago; his eyes had wandered to the window without seeing anything beyond it. At times his pen twitched against the flimsiplast, as if Galen’s thoughts were threatening to brim over and spill onto the page. When he at last pulled his eyes from the window to glance back down at his work, he sighed at the thoughtless smudges he’d left behind, dark and untidy. A fitting representation of his current state of mind.

From the open doorway, a faint knock. When Galen looked up, he found himself staring into a familiar pair of blue eyes.

"Now how did I know you'd be here three hours after you’re scheduled to have left?" Orson Krennic stepped forward with a grin. "Has anyone ever accused you of working too hard, Professor Erso?"

"You certainly haven't," Galen said with an answering smile, as he stepped forward to envelope Orson in a warm embrace.

"Then I won't start now," Orson said against his shoulder.

When Galen released him and stepped back his gaze swept over Orson’s white jacket, as neat and bright as ever. Orson cut a fine figure in it, Galen had to admit. “I’m still not used to the uniform.”

Orson straightened its hem, preening only slightly. “One of the benefits of serving our Republic—it makes dressing simple.” He moved to sink into the chair by Galen's desk, tossing his hat onto its surface as he leaned forward to peer at the diagrams strewn over it. Galen noted the immediate flicker of interest in his eyes. "What were you working on that’s kept you here so late after your lecture?"

Galen sat back in his own chair with a tired smile. "I’m afraid today I was doing more _brooding_ than actual work. But how was your trip to the Outer Rim? You were gone for longer than I expected; Reeva gave me no end of grief when you couldn’t make it to her get-together."

"I’ll be sure to bring her a more expensive vintage next time. That will smooth things over." Orson flipped through the drawings with a keen eye; he always lingered longest on the theories Galen thought most promising. "The trip was boring, to tell the truth. Construction has been slowed down by a rogue meteor storm, of all things—that’s one of the tiresome dangers of deep-space projects. This, on the other hand, looks fascinating."

As usual, Galen felt a bright spark of happiness at the compliment. “I remember when you were one of the only ones to think so,” he said, gently taking the paper from Orson’s hands to stare at its contents. “Ever since I’ve begun my professorship here, though, I’ve been met with nothing but shared interest and encouragement.”

Orson snorted and leaned back in his chair. “I should hope so. This institute contains some of the brightest minds of our time—so at least they have a chance at understanding you.”

“Flatterer.”

Orson waved his hand with an wry smile. “Naturally. Did you plan on toiling here much longer?”

Galen glanced at the time. “Actually, I should leave before they send someone to forcibly remove me. I’ve been here for… longer than is probably healthy.”

“How many nights have you slept in this office? Do you have a little nest back there?” Orson craned his neck to peer onto the other side of Galen’s desk—standing, Galen pushed him away with a laugh.

“Walk with me,” he said. “My apartment is just off campus, and I should still have that bottle of Corvani rum you gave me when I first moved in.”

“I’ll never turn down the offer of a good drink.” Orson fell into step beside him as they made their way out of the teaching facility. Outside the sun beamed down on the commons, strips of artfully grown grass and tall metal shade structures dotting the smooth white surface. Students sat on benches and lounged on steps, noses in books and fingers flying over datapads. Others just strolled arm-in-arm in the sunlight, their eyes glinting with happiness.

And yet there were others who walked quickly, shoulders hunched and eyes dark in spite of the sunlight. It was them Galen’s eyes followed as he and Orson made their leisurely way towards the staff apartments. The same thoughts that had churned in his mind all afternoon threatened to drag him down again, memories of the news reports that had been filtering in throughout the day. It was Orson’s presence alone which held him in the present, with the warm breeze on his face and the occasional brush of his friend’s shoulder against his own.

Orson’s eyes traveled over the scene as they walked, his hands clasped behind his back. “Beautiful day.”

Even such an inane comment was enough to make Galen smile. “A perfect day,” he agreed. “I’m so happy here, Orson—happier here than I can ever remember being."

A smile pinched fondly in the corners of Orson’s eyes. “I’m glad.”

“I wouldn't be here at all if it weren't for you,” Galen continued offhandedly. “Days like this I’m reminded of how grateful I should be.”

“Days like this,” Orson echoed. He, too, would have seen the reports. But he reached up to brush his bare fingers over his mouth and glanced at Galen from the side. "Remember, you're here on your own merits. I merely brought them to the attention of the people who matter."

“And for that, I’m still thankful.”

They had made their way from the commons, meandering down narrower streets until they reached the door to Galen’s building. “It would have been criminally negligent for me to stand by and let your genius go squandered by lesser minds,” Orson continued as Galen led him into his apartment. A row of windows across from the door let the light slant into the living room and kitchen—to the right was a door to the study, bedroom and bath. With some chagrin Galen began hastily stacking the reports and notes he’d left all over the kitchen counter that morning, and many mornings prior.

Orson watched him with a quirk in his lips. “It seems you’ve settled in nicely.”

Galen made a face. “I rarely realize how messy it gets until you come to visit.”

“I should get you a droid. Or maybe just take away all your flimsiplast.” Orson began to shuffle through the papers himself. Galen gave up on attempting to impose any order on his apartment and instead set to digging out the rum and glasses. When he pressed a generous portion of the amber liquid into Orson’s hand, the man raised the glass to inspect its wobbling contents.

“Shall we have a toast?” He stared at Galen over its rim, a smile ticking at the edges of his mouth.

Galen reached out to clink their glasses together. “To peace.”

The smile on Orson’s lips did not disappear—it seemed to turn inward, and grow harder. “Peace, and security. You can’t have one without the other.”

The alcohol seared Galen’s throat on the way down. He’d never gained as great an appreciation for the stuff as Orson had, though he always drank it when the other man came over. He’d come to associate its burn with the sound of Orson’s laugh, the leap of thoughts always facilitated by the other man’s presence. “So I take it you heard about Naboo.”

A harsh laugh. “Who hasn’t?”

“And do you think it’s cause for concern?” Galen leaned forward. “You work for the Republic now—perhaps you’ve heard something.”

Orson sighed. “I’m an engineer, not a military officer. I doubt I know much more than you. The trade blockade of Naboo is… technically legal. The Senate’s hands are tied. Last I heard, there was talk of sending in Jedi to negotiate.”

Galen took another drink to drown the sour taste in his mouth. “Is it really as bad as that?”

Orson leaned backwards on the counter as he took another sip of rum. “If the new projects I’ve been assigned at the Corps are any indication. Besides my off-world projects, I’ve been put in charge of a team of scientists here on Coruscant, who seek to develop a better method of energy dispersal in spacecraft shields.”

“I suppose it’s only a matter of time before they move you from developing shields to developing the weapons to pierce them.”

Orson rolled his neck. “It seems likely.”

Galen set his half-finished drink on a stack of his notes. The thought of choking down any more made his stomach flip. “And you’ll do it?” he said. “Knowing your work can—will—be used to hurt people?”

“Not _our_ people, Galen.”

“Does that matter?”

Orson’s mouth twisted as he stared Galen down. His fingers drummed restlessly on the edge of the countertop before he pushed himself away to meander over to Galen’s side of the kitchen, and lean next to him instead. His shoulder was a warm weight against Galen’s.

Orson let out a heavy breath through his lips, shaking his head. “These are difficult times.” quietly. He stared straight ahead, hands gripping his elbows loosely. “Holding the Republic together isn’t going to be easy. Especially when so many like the Separatists would rather follow their own selfish goals, no matter who they hurt. It’s people like that who will tear down everything all of us have worked to build. Lack of _foresight_.”

Galen was surprised to see genuine anger in Orson’s eyes as he spoke of the Republic’s enemies. Orson had always been a passionate man, but only in recent years had that fervor transferred itself to the Republic itself. Now Orson’s arms tightened where they were crossed over his chest, and a muscle twitched in his jaw.

“Hard to hold anything together with blaster fire,” Galen commented.

Orson glanced at him at that—a wry smile tugged the corner of his mouth aside. He shrugged, as if they were debating a math problem whose solution Galen simply had yet to see. “The best way to avoid more bloodshed is to end any conflict as quickly as possible. A better weapon, a cleaner war.”

“War?” Galen turned to face him head-on. Even the lingering heat of the rum couldn’t fill the cold pit opening in his stomach. “Will it really come to that?”

Orson stared at him sidelong, his shoulders hunched slightly. “If it does, what will you do?”

Galen shook his head. “I don’t know. What can I do? I’m only a teacher.”

 “Surely you’re not planning to remain in your ivory tower forever.” Orson turned around to pluck Galen’s glass off the pile of notes. He tilted his head back as he drank, but his eyes didn’t leave Galen’s. “Testing theory is a nice way to pass the time, but I didn’t think it would _satisfy_ you. Not for long.” Orson shot him a smile at him over the rim of his glass. “Maybe that’s why I got you this job. To prove to you that it wouldn’t be enough.”

“And if that does happen?” Galen said. “What would _you_ have me do?”

“You could join the Corps of Engineers,” Orson said immediately. “I really think you’d thrive here, Galen. There’s so much room for growth, for innovation—there’s so much we could do with a man of your talents.”

Galen smiled, though a strange hollow feeling had opened up in his chest. “I can’t work for the Republic, Orson—as much as I’d love to work with _you_.”

Orson sighed. His glass captured the sound and threw it back at him. “You’re too stubborn for your own good,” he said disapprovingly, but when he glanced up his eyes were bright. “Things are going to change quickly from now on, Galen. My offer will be waiting for you, should you change your mind.”

Galen clinked their glasses together again, in want of anything else to say.

“Now,” Orson said, his tone falsely businesslike once more. “Is that a new method of crystal-cutting I saw on one of those diagrams?”

Galen quickly launched into an effort to locate the paper in question and discuss its contents—before long they settled on the floor in a square of afternoon sunlight, with Galen’s notes spread out around them. Orson sifted through the pages of flimsiplast, touching Galen’s shoulder when he exclaimed over a particular idea, sitting close enough that their arms brushed whenever one of them raised a glass of rum to their lips again. Orson’s presence was as much an analgesic as the alcohol, comforting and warm. For a while, Galen could forget his thoughts of a splintering Republic, of harder shields, crueler weapons, equations transmuting casualties into peace.


	5. Chapter 5

The package had been waiting on Galen’s desk, in the office Krennic had so generously granted him. Grey and unlabeled, it had not resembled an explosive at all. But when Galen picked it up, he could feel the danger of its contents long before he slit it open.

That had been months ago. Yet still the small metal disk with its pupil of blue crystal sat in Galen’s desk drawer, still waiting to explode. He hadn’t dared keep it in his quarters. He might be tempted to take it out when he lacked the strength to look at what it held.

He believed he had prepared enough once again. That morning he had been careful to eat, to bathe, to perform every menial task of self-maintenance that a healthy body and mind demanded. He had kept his thoughts stacked and organized like perfectly fitting cubes, not a single one out of place. Such visualizations were a great help. If a thought did it fit, he would discard it—or stuff it into a different box, something to be unpacked later. His mind was a grid. Yes, he was ready.

Galen set the silver holoprojector on his desk, and flipped it on. The recorded image began to play. The details were miniature and tinted blue, but it made little difference. Galen could imagine the frizz over Lyra’s hair, the creases beside her eyes, the little bulges of Jyn’s pudgy toddler fingers as Lyra guided her arm to wave. Laughing, both of them. Though the holoimage was silent.

“Look at me, Stardust!” Galen had called as he recorded it.

“Look at Papa,” Lyra had echoed, working her fingers under Jyn’s arm to tickle her. He could watch the words flit silently over her lips.

The image flickered, reset, looped again—Galen allowed himself to watch it through three iterations before turning it off again.

It helped to know that he was under constant surveillance. He would not give Krennic the satisfaction of seeing his reaction. As always, it was difficult to tell whether the hologram was meant to be a gift to console him, or another twist of the knife. Galen believed it was the former, and the thought gave him no solace.

In the office Galen reluctantly thought of as his own, his eyes wandered out the window to the starfield beyond. The Star Destroyer which housed him circled the bright curve of the Death Star as a carrion bird might circle a corpse.

For the first time, Galen had seen his own work made flesh, realized in its fullest scope. It was so vast it was nearly incomprehensible, even with every design specification laid out before him.

By reading Krennic's reports he could begin to build it in his mind--at its heart, Galen's own work, intimately familiar to him. Around it the hallways and power conduits, piping and air refreshers, knitting around it like a heart. And it seemed like a massive heart to him, waiting for the spark to make it beat. As the shell of the Death Star had risen before him like a newborn and lightless sun, the understanding of what he had been created dawned over him in the same way.

There was no escaping that silent icon—he could not leave it any easier than he could cut off his own arm. The Death Star had swallowed him whole from the moment he had laid eyes on it, and he could do nothing more than kick feebly as it began to digest him. If he could not escape, he would have to adapt. Become a parasite that strangled it from the inside out.

With a sigh, Galen slid the holoprojector back into his desk and returned his attention to the papers on his desk. All of his notes were present; Krennic had even kept the ones on sheets of flimsiplast. That might have almost been touching, if Galen didn’t know better. In the margins were notes in Krennic’s own hand, seemingly gibberish; but Galen had helped Krennic develop his own coded shorthand, and he could pick his way through it now like untangling a ball of thread. ^ _Para kc 11 AOIO 22?_ one line read. Something to the effect of _increase parameters of crystal flux feedback to pass sustainable reaction threshold._ Galen could follow Krennic’s path through his own notes, as he tried to climb into Galen’s mind as if his genius was a machine, with controls to be learned and manipulated.

Though Krennic had failed to decipher Galen's work, he had not attempted it alone. A dozen other researchers had struggled to balance on Galen's shoulders after he fled the Empire. Their awkward and fumbling attempts to mimic what he had laid into place grew off of his work like fungus from a dead tree. It took some effort of will not to simply strike them all out, to possessively return the work to its original, pristine state.

Three years made for a long absence. On the farm he had worked so hard to sterilize every thought that might lead him back to this room, and yet here he was nonetheless. It had not been useless—it had taught Galen how his thoughts and feelings might be rationed, just as he rationed his viewings of the hologram. He had to hold things in his mind very gently, suspended as if by his fingertips. Lyra. Jyn. The life he'd left behind. He dissected his memories into fragments, broke his family into the color of an eye or the curve of a palm, so they would be easier to let go.

A small light on Galen's datapad began to blink: a new message on his secured channel. Resignedly, Galen checked it. _Chain reaction test confirmed for 1100 hours. Final supplies in place._ No signature; no pleasantries. Though the work required contact between the two of them, ever since what Galen had taken to thinking of as the _confrontation_ in the lab, Krennic communicated in curt impersonal sentiments that contained nothing but essential information.

As Galen read it, a familiar pang cut through his heart—he could practically feel Krennic's bitterness bleeding out around those words, like blood seeping from an old wound. Once they had so much to say to each other. Galen still felt the remnants of that bond, like a spur of broken bone. The knowledge that it would hurt Krennic as much as it hurt him gave Galen some degree of comfort.

 _Acknowledged_ , Galen sent in response. There was no further reply.

 

* * *

 

The crystals sat in the center of the testing range, side-by-side like a pair of tumorous lungs, wired together in their center by filaments of synthesized crystal. They were two of the largest kyber crystals Galen had ever seen, and his team member Feyn Vann assured him that there were many larger still waiting only to be put to use. The lab's facilities were too small to host them—they had moved to what appeared to be a converted hanger bay, the space vast and cavernous around them.

The crystal's natural facets were unlike any synthetically carved gem; spikes twisted and curved away from the crystal's body like curls of smoke, milky-white and shot with veins of color under the lab's harsh light. The longer Galen stared, the more he felt the pit of his stomach twist. Crystals like that could only come from the Jedi temple.

His hands clenched on his datapad. That knowledge was irrelevant. No matter the source, he would use the kyber as he might use any other tool available to him. That was what he needed to do.

“Dr. Erso.” Sirro Argonne stepped up beside him, his face fixed in its constant expression of bland concern. “The safety perimeter has been cleared, and the backup power diverters have passed all tests. We’re ready to move forward with the chain reaction.”

“What are our current figures for the crystals’ power load?”

Argonne consulted his datapad. “Your new calculations have bumped up our estimates from 120% of  peak single-crystal reaction to 230%.”

No hint of resentment in the man’s tone at that. He seemed to have no interest in competitive posturing. “Thank you, Dr. Argonne. You may give the order.” With a short nod, Argonne strode over to the remaining team members at the control panel. Rasett Milio, whose specialty was in containment and power diversion, began to raise the switch.  

Argonne was reporting to Krennic. Of that, Galen was certain. It was entirely possible that all the technicians in his team are doing so, but Galen doubts it; Krennic would choose one, two at most. It would be important that Galen feel he could trust _somebody_ ; let him bond with them, let his guard down. Krennic underestimated his ability to cope with isolation.

While the crystals began taking on the energy charge, Galen caught a glimpse of white pacing restlessly along the upper observation deck. Galen’s eyes lingered for a moment before he made himself turn away.

The tension in the air climbed higher. Slowly, the hairs on Galen’s arms began to rise. The rest of his lab team stood behind the safety cordon, their datapads held in front of them as if ready to take notes—all of their eyes were fixed on the crystals. As the generators forced a greater surge of energy into their structure, the filaments of color within began to pulse and glow. On each end, the flow regulators whined with the effort of containing the energy—on one end the energy fed into the first crystal, and on the other an exhaust port funneled the excess heat away. The air around it rippled and seethed as if filled with a swarm of insects.

“200 percent,” Argonne called over the noise. “The crystals are reflecting the energy back to each other more efficiently than we predicted!”

“Keep going!” Galen replied. His heart began to beat faster. Perhaps he had miscalculated, underestimated the crystal’s potential or simply failed to understand their true nature. What might they have left to learn?

The same excitement was in Argonne’s eyes. “220. 230. 240. We’ve passed the peak now, Erso!”

Galen couldn’t tear his eyes from the crystals. They seemed to be in communication, strung together by the power conduit between them. “Keep going.”

Argonne glanced back at him, eyes questioning—there should have been more tests and projections. Once, Galen would have called a halt to the test without question and deigned it a success. But he remembered white specter above. He remembered the hologram. The grid in his mind shifted—anger, at nothing and everything, pried its way free. It rose like the hum in the air, reckless, violent.

“Increase by another ten percent,” Galen called over the drone in the air, and the man complied.

The crystals began to vibrate, its edges becoming indistinct—when the support struts held, Galen gestured for another five percent. The air beyond the exhaust port was whipping into a frenzy. Behind it, the crane which had lowered the crystal into place slumped silent and out of use—the heat from the exhaust washed over it, and to Galen’s amazement the metal began to glow white hot and then sag. The technicians were beginning to shuffle nervously, even well behind the lines of the safety cordon.  

He looked to Argonne and nodded. They could not stop now. “Another ten!”

The man actually hesitated, only for a split second, before doing as he was told. Galen could see the support struts were holding firm, and the crystal’s surface integrity was completely intact—the reaction within it formed a nimbus like the heart of a star, wavering with a white light shot with every color imaginable. It was beautiful. Mesmerizing. The crane in range of the exhaust heat pitched over with a groan of tortured metal, to slam into the opposite wall with a shudder Galen felt through the floor. Some of the scientists stumbled backwards, voices crying in alarm. Galen’s eyes did not leave the crystal.

He did not see the way that the heat began to churn backwards towards the exhaust port, or how the metal itself began to warp. All he was aware of was the shockwave that washed over him, nearly knocking him backwards—and the awful crash and roar of the reaction going subcritical, before the generator’s safety functions cut it off just a second too late.

The crystals split as if battered by some massive force, beginning at the inferno near the exhaust port and rippling through the structures as a whole. Galen caught a glimpse of the surface wavering as if turned into liquid before the force of the explosion knocked him to the ground. Hot, gritty air blasted over his face with the smell like molten glass. A boom shook the floor. On instinct Galen flung his hands over the back of his head, and waited for the chaos to quiet.

When he raised his head, he was met with snow. It covered everything in a thin white dusting, particles still swirling in the air. When Galen reached out to brush it from his uniform, its texture was hot and gritty. It wasn’t until he had turned to face the crystals that Galen fully understood.

Where mere seconds ago the massive kybers had been suspended high in the air, there was nothing but broken fragments spinning idly on their supports. Technicians and scientists were scattered around the room, some clutching limbs with grimaces of pain, others kneeling at their side. There was hardly any shrapnel that Galen could see—he estimated that approximately 40% of the crystals’ mass had been utterly disintegrated.

His fingers absently rubbed the kyber dust between them, dazed, marveling, numb. His ears were ringing too loudly to hear the cries of the wounded. Such utter devastation. In its own way, it was more beautiful than the crystals themselves had been. In his chest, a great hollowness where the anger had been.  

His eyes drifted up to the observation window, but the dark glass was coated with a thick dusting of kyber. He could see nothing beyond it. He did not need to. The pinched frustration on Krennic’s face had been familiar for years.

Staggering to the Argonne, struggling to sit up on the floor, Galen bent down and did what he could to help.

 

* * *

 

The security recordings captured everything. Galen watched, for the hundredth time, as the exhaust vent failed to properly disperse the massive heat generated by the kyber; he watched as that heat built and built, until it had no place to go but surging back into the crystal itself. The explosion was like a water droplet shattering against a windowpane. The glowing crystal transmuted into millions of fragments all at once, its own hyper-condensed galaxy.

Galen paused the recording at the exact moment of the explosion. He rewound it and played it again.

It had been foolish. Part of him had wanted to sabotage the experiment, to inflict some terrible violence on the thing that kept him here, the thing that he and Krennic had built—and the other part had been driven only by the need to see what would happen. He had not once thought of how he was risking the lives around him. Galen was not certain which impulse shamed him more.

Between him and his datapad, the sheets of flimisplast on which he had sketched the original reactor designs lay strewn on the table. The exhaust port would need to be larger, that much was clear. The heat would need to be channeled, not allowed to build. The crystals in the final reactor would be much larger than the one that Galen had destroyed, and producing even more heat—perhaps a system of emergency coolant tanks…

The notification from his datapad pinged. At this hour, Galen did not need to check who the message was from. _Five casualties. No dead. Three new crystals will arrive within the week._

Galen allowed himself a sigh. It was not relief he felt so much as the slight lessening of guilt. At least there were no more deaths to weigh on his conscience. There would be new crystals, a new set of tests. The work would grind on.

The notification pinged a second time. When Galen read the message, his breath stilled in his throat.

_I had not known you to be so reckless._

It was the first thing resembling a personal communication that Krennic had sent him in months.

 _You had not known me_ , Galen wanted to reply. _You still don’t._ But of course, those sentiments would be revealing far too much. There could be no such honesty between them now, if ever there had been. Jaw tightening, Galen composed his reply: _I will endeavor to do better next time._

There was nothing more to do but pull up the security recording again, to watch it loop and let his mind get lost in the cycling images. The violence of that sudden cataclysm was astonishing. Galen could only imagine what the weapon itself will do. His heart beat harder at the thought, and he was not sure which emotion drove it. All that power, and yet a simple thing such as an excess of heating backing up into the ventilation shafts could turn it into dust.

Galen’s stylus paused on the diagrams of the reactor. For a long time, he was still and silent. Almost imperceptibly, his fingers began to tremble. He dropped his stylus and lifted them to his mouth, rubbing it to hide the desperate, manic smile that flickered over his lips. He could see it. Clear, and terrifying in its certainty. The loose string of equations that, when pulled, would bring the entire project unravelling around Krennic’s head.

He knew how to kill the Death Star.  


	6. Chapter 6

  _24 BBY_

Orson speared a sliver of pear on the end of his fork and wondered how many more courses the business lunch could possibly have remaining. Across from him, Professor Sahali’s utensils moved like the ceaseless pincers of a beetle. Theirs was the only table on Sahali’s private terrace; his servants were silent, and kept a far greater distance than what propriety demanded. Under the oppressive silence of a noise-buffering field between them and the constant roar of Coruscanti traffic, the clink of utensils was deafening.

Such opulence was hardly to be believed, even for a man of Sahali’s rank. The apartment practically smelled of bribes. Orson would not have been surprised to find an extra hundred credits in his pocket on walking out of the room. And the man called himself a scientist.

“It’s a handsome place, don’t you think?” When he glanced back to Sahali the other man was watching him closely, his expression greedy. He’d clearly misinterpreted Orson’s perusal of the scenery.

Orson marshalled his contempt into something more neutral. “You’ve done well for yourself.”

“My work for the Republic has been rewarded.” The man dabbed at his lips fastidiously. His voice carried a strong Outer Rim accent, but the man was Coruscanti through and through. “I’m sure you yourself hope to fix up such a little place one day.”

“My tastes run to the simpler things.”

Sahali inclined his head to Orson’s wine glass. “And yet you clearly have a taste for a fine vintage.” 

 _If only to make the hours pass just a little faster._ Orson only smiled, biting the inside of his cheek.

Sahali raised his glass to inspect its contents against the light. “There’s nothing wrong with ambition,” he announced. “And I can see you’re a man with a taste for that, too.”

“I admit, I’m curious as to why you’ve asked me here today.” Curiosity was an understatement. Orson had combed his mind for a reason why Professor Sahali would have requested a meeting with him, and come up blank. Their only connection was their mutual membership in the Strategic Advisory Cell; but while Orson continued to fight his way through the dozens of engineers of middling skill, Sahali sat at the side of Mas Amedda himself. When Orson had received the invitation to meet over lunch on the man’s private terrace, he knew he could not refuse.

Sahali sat back in his chair and tucked his chin into the wreaths of flesh beneath it. “I generally make it a habit not to discuss business before the sixth course. But I can tell that I’ve made you nervous.”

“Not nervous,” Orson said, struggling not to speak through gritted teeth. “Merely _intrigued_. I assume it has to do with the Cell.”

“You would be half-right.” He did not elaborate. “So tell me, my boy: What is your opinion on the secession crisis?”

"I've voiced my opinion many times in the meetings."

“Ah, but have you really been heard?” A smile toyed with the moist edges of Sahali’s lips. “Here is your chance, Orson. Important ears are listening.”

Unclear whether Sahali was referring only to his own. “I believe the Separatists pose a greater threat than the Senate is willing to admit,” he said.  “As more systems abandon the Republic, more will decide to follow them. The events on Halycon and Naboo have already proven that they are willing—eager—to turn to violence. But those same events also showed that the Senate is not doing enough to prepare for the crises to come.” Orson set his fork down with a clink. “And they will come.”

He chose not to mention that Sahali exhibited the same corruption that the Separatists were criticizing in the first place. They were not wholly unreasonable—the system _was_ corrupt, laden with more bureaucracy than its structure could support. If things continued as they were, in time that weight would suffocate their republic alive.

“And if you had your way, how would you have our government act?”

“Greater investments in the technical sciences,” Orson said without hesitation. “Specifically, defense research.”

“What about building the Republic’s stockpile of weapons?”

Orson tilted his head. “As I had understood it, _defense research_ is merely a more palatable way to describe the invention of even larger guns.”

“You sound rather glib, Orson.”

“There is nothing inherently interesting in designing more efficient ways to kill or maim. But I acknowledge the necessity.”

Sahali smiled. “Not a pacifist, eh?”

“I prefer a more practical ideology.” Orson swallowed a mouthful of wine, bitter and rich. It really was quite good. “I get the feeling this is an interview, Professor Sahali,” he said, tapping his fingers on the bulb of his glass. “But you have yet to tell me what for.”

“You _are_ astute. I suppose there’s no use in being coy about it.” Sahali set his napkin upon the table. At that sign, one of his servers came to clear the dishes from the table, and left just as quickly. In its place, Sahali laid a datapad against the white cloth and inspected it carefully. "Now then. According to your file, you specialized in architecture."

"That's correct." Orson kept his expression composed as Sahali pawed through the facts of his life. It was an old trick and a cheap one, waving important information about to appear more important and powerful than was the case. Why he should want to put Orson ill at ease was entirely a different question. It was clear that there was some position Sahali could not speak of openly—was there a new professorship opening at Sahali's university, some scandal yet unbroken?

"I see that you were a member of the Republic Futures Program," Sahali continued. "And did well there. But with some difficulties."

Orson raised an eyebrow. "I don't remember it being difficult."

"I'm speaking of your disciplinary record."

Orson stared at him for a long time. "I can’t help but wonder why that is relevant. Or why a scientist such as yourself would have the clearance or inclination to go through my sealed files, and organize a private lunch to discuss schoolboy brawls."

A smile hoisted the jowls around Sahali's mouth. "I can see you are a man who appreciates candor." His fingers flicked over the datapad to dismiss Orson's file and call up some new information. “I’m about to brief you on certain aspects of your next assignment.”

“I was not aware that I was being reassigned.”

“You haven’t been, yet. This was your interview, and you passed.”

A faint suspicion began to twitch restlessly in the tips of Orson's fingers. “With all due respect Professor, I prefer to know when I’m being interviewed for something. Or _what_ I’m interviewing for.”

“And I will be happy to tell you. But first—” Sahali turned the datapad around and thrust it in Orson's direction—"we need certain assurances."

The documents laid out on the screen before him were in depth. Orson took a moment to scan them. They made the confidentiality agreements he signed when joining the Strategic Advisory Cell look like promises made on a children's playground. "You haven't told me what these are for."

"You don't have the clearance for it."

Orson laughed--Sahali did not. "I don't have the clearance for you to tell me what I'm signing up for?" When Sahali said nothing, Orson shook his head. "I will need time to go over the paperwork.”

"You can read them after you've signed them."

Orson stared at him. "You can't be serious."

"But I am. The choice is yours, of course—if you are truly so opposed, you can still walk out that door and never know the opportunity you threw away."

Orson's teeth clenched as he stared at the datapad. He was not in the habit of agreeing to mysterious documents pushed at him by corrupt officials. It was a gamble—whether agreeing to these terms would increase his power, or undermine it. The seat next to Amedda beckoned.

"One final question," Orson said at last. "Who is _we?_ "

Sahali steepled his fingers and regarded Orson over their peak. " _We_ are the people who agree with everything you’ve said about the Separatists. The people who have _taken notice.”_

There was no choice, in the end. Orson had to know.

He pressed his fingerprint to the scanner and entered his personal code—the information was whisked away to whatever esoteric database Orson had just consigned himself to. Sahali accepted the datapad back, with a smile like a toad who had just caught the fly but had yet to swallow it whole.

"Now that _that's_ over with," he said, leaning back to lace his fingers over his belly and inspect Orson shrewdly. "Welcome to the Special Weapons Group." 

 

* * *

 

Some time later, Orson stepped out onto the walkway outside of Sahali’s apartments and set off at a brisk pace with no destination in particular. No matter how he tried to curb it, a smile kept plucking his lips. Free at last, and yet he would have gladly remained for longer—if he had known how that meal was to end, he would have savored every bite.

The things Sahali had told him tumbled around in Orson’s mind, as hectic as the speeder traffic that whisked past the high walkways. For years Orson had been fighting for influence, the ability to turn his ideas into action—and here, at least, he had found it. There were other people that feared for the Republic as he did, and would do what it would take to defend it. He remembered the plans Sahali had shown him—“Just a mere taste, and much more to come,” he had promised—an automated battlemoon asteroid, a torpedo siege platform, a shield generator capable of withstanding the temperatures of a supernova.

Orson wanted to pick them all apart piece by piece, to lay their workings out and consume them. And he would have that opportunity, and many more—most importantly of all, he would have the chance to make his own changes.

A soft chime from the comlink in his pocket drew Orson to a halt at last. He stepped into the shelter of a doorway and drew out the device; he scarcely had to check the incoming signal before raising it to his ear. The smile he had been trying to repress twitched over his lips freely.

“Galen. You have impeccable timing.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

Galen sounded amused. It had been far too long since Orson had heard his voice, away on yet another field assignment on some distant world. Orson savored it now. “Because you always know when I need to talk to you before I even know it myself.”

“I have a lot to tell you, too. Honestly, Orson, you won’t believe everything that’s happened to me.”

Orson rolled his shoulders against the metal of the doorframe. “I wouldn’t have thought a bunch of rocks could be so exciting.”

“It’s not that. But there will be time for this soon enough. My transport gets back in to Coruscant tomorrow night—will you come see me then?”

“So soon?” It must have been important, for Galen to want company after such a long journey—normally the man could cloister himself away for days at a time, until Orson harassed him into civilization once more.

But this time, Galen only laughed. “I can hardly wait that long as it is. You’ll be there?”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

 

* * *

 

Walking the path to Galen’s apartment filled Orson with the warmth of familiar habits. The same stairs, the same door—the same smell of poorly-cooked Grangian fare lingering in the hallway outside. Orson had missed this. In recent years, it seemed that Galen was always traipsing off to some backwater planet looking for new rocks to pry out of the earth. Galen’s eagerness to see him was intriguing on its own, but it was the man himself that Orson was most excited to see. He would pour himself a glass of wine and watch Galen’s face animate as he discussed his latest breakthrough. Orson would try to listen. But mostly, he would watch.

As he raised his fist to the door, Orson hesitated. Galen wasn’t the only one with exciting news—but he knew already that he could scarcely breathe a word to Galen about the latest development in his career. The confidentiality documents made that abundantly clear. And yet he wanted to share this new success somehow, even if it meant lying. He could say that he received a promotion, an important promotion; should he twist the details, or admit he couldn’t discuss it? That in itself would only lead to more questions. 

The door flew open in the middle of his thoughts, and all at once Orson was yanked over the threshold and straight into an embrace. He laughed against Galen’s shoulder out of surprise as much as anything—he almost forgot to raise his own arms and clasp Galen tightly on the back.

“Were you planning on skulking outside my door forever?” Galen said with a laugh, pulling back at last but keeping his hand on Orson’s shoulder as they regarded each other in person for the first time in half a year.

“Just rehearsing my lines,” Orson said. He couldn’t stop staring. Galen’s hair was longer, his jaw dusted with stubble; there was even a small pale scar notching the skin between his hairline and his eye, the length of a finger bone. Forces that Orson would never know had touched him, left their mark on him—it was a strange thought.

Stranger than anything, Galen was grinning like a madman. Orson couldn’t remember if he’d ever seen Galen smile so freely.

Galen ushered him inside and straight to the living room. He seemed to forget about serving whatever he’d cooked, to Orson’s faint relief. Of course, Galen did not forget the wine. He poured two glasses and sank down into a chair without apologizing for the mess, and Orson followed him. Instead of the usual cluttering of notes, the rooms were strewn with clothes, hiking boots still clinging to the dirt of their trails, quaint flimsiplast maps long since worn into shreds.

“What a journey,” Galen said on a breath of blown-out air. “What a day. What a week. What a—how long was I gone again?”

Orson made a face as he forced down a swallow of wine. Sahali’s expensive vintage didn’t seem so exorbitant now. “Longer than these grapes have had time to age, I would think. Really, Galen, I made you a _list_ —”

“I only drink it when you’re over, so I hardly pay attention.”

“All the more reason for you to just buy what I like.”

“Well I’m glad that some things haven’t changed,” Galen said with a grin. “If you _hadn’t_ complained about the wine, I might have thought your mysterious contacts in the Republic had replaced you with some kind of double.”

Orson raised his glass in a mock salute. “Still stuck with me, I’m afraid.”

“I’m sure I’ll survive. I’ve had worse, by now.” Galen sank a little lower into his chair, drinking his wine in great tasteless gulps. “I’m more tired than I’ve been in my life.”

“You don’t look it,” Orson replied, using it as an excuse to inspect Galen frankly. “You look happier than I’ve seen you in a long time.”

Galen beamed at that—actually _beamed_. It was disconcerting. Orson narrowed his eyes and leaned a little closer. “Too happy, I’d say. You must have had quite a breakthrough out there in the wilderness.”

“The planet did provide some incredibly useful data,” Galen said. “When it comes to refracting energy, we hadn’t seen anything like the mineral deposits in the metamorphic rock—too rare to be put to practical use, unfortunately, but it’s opened up a world of new possibilities.” Galen chuckled. “But that’s not actually what I wanted to tell you about, Orson. I’m not really sure _how_ to tell you.”

Orson sat back and stared at him over the rim of his wineglass. “What exactly happened out there?”

With a sigh, Galen folded his arms over his chest and stared up at the ceiling. “I met someone.”

Orson waited for him to continue. When it was clear he wouldn’t, he laughed weakly. “Met someone? Galen, you were on one of the most remote planets I could name off the top of my head. Who was there to meet?”

“One of the expedition members,” Galen said. “The geologist—specializing in crystallography. Her name is Lyra.”

The words sent a small tendril of unease probing through the wine in Orson’s stomach. When he did not immediately respond, the smile on Galen’s face dropped by degrees. “Is something wrong?”

“No. No, Galen, of course not.” Orson forced levity into his tone like a wedge. “It’s only—is now really the time for a fling? Your work was progressing so quickly.”

“A fling?” Galen shook his head, and took a larger gulp of wine than even Orson might have stomached. “You misunderstand me, Orson. Lyra and I… we got very close, over the months. And I—care about her very much.”

The silence drew out just a little too long.  “Now, I’m starting to doubt that _you’re_ the real Galen,” Orson said, forcing levity into his tone like a wedge.

“What do you mean?”

Orson took another drink, buying time. “Only that you never struck me as the type to form… that sort of attachment.”

Galen smiled. His eyes were uncertain. “I’m starting to wonder whether I should feel insulted.”

“Insulted? There’s nothing wrong with being unsusceptible to distractions.” The smile came easier then. “But then again, something like this was bound to happen eventually. A bit of fun never hurt anyone.”

Galen stared at him, smiling faintly. “You don’t believe me when I say this is real.”

“I believe that _you_ believe it. But you’re home now. Whatever this was will pass, once you return to your normal life.”

Galen shook his head. “It won’t, Orson. I don’t think I could ever go back to the way I was before.”

Anger leapt onto Orson’s tongue like a hot ember, searing against the backs of his teeth. It came on so suddenly that he was startled at himself. He worked his mouth around it silently, glaring into the dull red circle of his wine. Reaching for the place where genuine happiness should have been, Orson found only a void.

Easier just to smile, and reach over and clasp Galen on the shoulder. “Of course,” he said, nodding too often, too quickly. “Of course. I’m happy for you, Galen. I should have said so before anything else.”

In the end, it didn’t matter. No matter what Galen thought, all of this _would_ be over in a month. Of that, Orson was certain.

Galen’s hand reached up to cover Orson’s against his shoulder. His fingers were very warm. “But what about you?” he said. “On the comlink, it sounded like you had something important to tell me as well.”

If Orson had not spent years fighting to maintain his self-control, he might have blurted the truth out about the Special Weapons Group right there. Not because Galen would be happy to hear it, but because he _needed_ Galen to hear it—a strange sort of jealousy. But of course, he didn’t. The lies he’d been shuffling together felt weak and tasteless now. Sharing a grain of the truth with Galen would give him no pleasure now. He’d keep it for his own, and in a couple of weeks when Galen came to him admitting he’d broken it off with the woman, _then_ Orson would tell him more.

“It’s nothing,” Orson said. “They assigned me some new projects that I’m excited about. I’ll tell you about them later.”

Galen looked ready to ask for more details. Orson spoke before he could. “So, then,” he said too quickly. He forced down another swallow of wine, and it made the smile come easier. “Tell me about this _Lyra_.”

The smile that spread over Galen’s face made Orson’s stomach clench.


	7. Chapter 7

_12 BBY_

“Erso is hiding something.”

Sirro Argonne stood in the middle of Krennic’s office with his hands clutched behind him, his background in the Republic’s military on full display. Though his history made him easier to command, the reason Krennic had chosen Argonne as his informant was much simpler—he was the smartest man on the team, and that alone would win Galen’s attention. Argonne was, for all intents and purposes, a carefully selected piece of bait.

Or so Krennic had thought. His chief informant on Galen’s affairs was proving to be as subtle as a stormtrooper’s shock-baton. Krennic regarded him over the rim of his datapad, shifting his jaw as if chewing on the thought. “Galen is a private man. But not a particularly guileful one.”

Argonne seemed to resist the urge to roll his shoulders under Krennic’s scrutiny. “With all due respect, sir: I disagree. I believe he may be planning to escape.”

 “Galen has nothing to escape from,” Krennic snapped. “More importantly, he has nowhere to go. If he knows where his child is, he would not dare to collect her—not when he might risk leading us right to her.” The search still continued, though increasingly Krennic had needed to divert those resources to more pressing channels. Frustrating to think how a single girl could disappear so wholly into the vastness of the stars—but not entirely surprising.

“What reason would he have to want to leave?” Krennic said, almost to himself. His eyes flicked back to the datapad and then to Argonne again. “Is there more that he needs? Has he complained to you of anything lacking?”

Argonne tilted his head. “He lacks a wife and a child.”

“I asked for your report, not your insolence.” Krennic kept his voice quiet. That didn’t prevent the fury from seething its way to the surface. An ache was building in the corner of his jaw where his teeth clenched too hard. He made no effort to relax.

“Forgive me, Director. I spoke carelessly. I meant only that I believe Erso is isolating himself. That he is—lonely.”

Krennic fingered the end of his stylus, jittering his index finger against its point. His eyes wandered to the window of his office, the star field beyond. “Your assignment was to capitalize on that loneliness. Use it to draw closer to him.”  

“He makes a conscious effort to keep every other researcher on our team as far from his personal life as possible.” A note of annoyance made Argonne’s tone nasal. “He is particularly withdrawn towards me.”

“Does he suspect anything about our conversations?”

“I find it likely. He isn’t a fool.”

“The most promising observation you’ve made so far.” Krennic turned back to Argonne. He set the datapad on the surface of his desk, but his fingers twitched over its surface as if itching to pick it up again. “What is your current evaluation of Erso’s current mental state?”  

Again Argonne hesitated. “He is happiest when he is at work.”

Another obvious statement. With all the opportunities Krennic has laid as his feet, Argonne should have  been able to open Galen Erso up like a safe with the proper codes. Krennic gave him Galen’s preferences, hobbies, pet peeves, aspirations—Argonne gave him nothing. What Krennic would give to stand in Argonne’s shoes, at Galen’s side, and see every look and tone and expression that only _he_ knew to look for. “And when he is not happy?”

Argonne was clearly weighing his words carefully now—smart man. “He is brilliant and meticulous. I find nothing wanting from his performance of his duty. But what small glimpses of his personal life that he allows me ring hollow. At times, he grows distant. Silent. I do not believe he is as stable as he is working to appear.”

Krennic let a breath out through his teeth. “Do you believe he may be a danger to the work, or your team?”

“Not to the work. Not to others.”

The implications behind his answer was clear enough. Krennic waved Argonne away as violently as he might have swatted a fly. “Get out.”

As soon as the man left, he pulled up the security video which had necessitated their conversation in the first place.

There were two cameras in Galen’s office, half a dozen in the lab, and one in the main chambers of Galen’s apartments. Krennic had almost ordered the bedroom to be bugged as well, but in the end decided to grant Galen that measure of trust. More often than not, there was nothing to see or hear. Everything Galen did took place far beneath the surface. At times his eyes would raise to one of the cameras, which he’d found within two days—not a pointed stare, but merely a glance. Affirming they were still there. Or trying to see who was behind them.

All the feeds led directly to Krennic’s computer terminal; no one else was authorized to observe them. As he stared at the most recent recording, he was grateful for that fact.

In the video, Galen sat at his desk and stared at his datapad. He sat still for a very long time. He didn’t speak, or sigh, or let any emotion pass over his face. The quality of the recording was ablurry and pixelated. After a few minutes of stillness, Galen’s hands changed their grip on the data pad; slowly, methodically, they bent it until it snapped, and tossed the broken pieces onto his desk like an afterthought.

If anyone other than Krennic were to see the footage, and believe that Galen was not as willing or stable as Krennic had made him out to be… well. His involvement with the project—and his usefulness to the Empire—would be irrevocably compromised.

Krennic would not let it come to that. He could not afford to lose Galen a second time. For the sake of the work, at least.

He deleted the video, and set off for the lab.

 

* * *

 

Galen’s office was still empty when Krennic arrived. He performed a cursory search, more out of habit than actual suspicion. It was deeply, perversely satisfying to open Galen’s desk drawers and peer inside: pieces of Galen that Krennic could finally _touch_. He found very little; neat stacks of notes on flimsiplast, a piece of chalk, the broken datapad tucked in the back—the hologram projector that Krennic himself had given him. He did not move any of it, but the last he could not resist—he delicately let a finger trail over its mechanisms to activate the image, springing out of the desk drawer like a children’s toy.  

Lyra and Jyn appeared in the air before him, ghostlike, frozen in their eternal smiles. As soon as he had discovered the hologram in an old Republic database, Krennic had known he would deliver it into Galen’s hands. Something for Galen to remember them by—and more importantly, to remember the price of his betrayal.

He had watched Galen stare at this image so many times in the recordings, yet less, perhaps, than he might have expected. There was always something demonstrative about it—after all, Galen knew he was being watched. Krennic stared into the blank eyes of Galen’s lost family and wondered what it was the man saw when he looked at them now. Was it grief? Or merely digging his nails into a wound so that it might never get the chance to heal?

Krennic snapped the image off, and closed the drawer again. He remained in Galen’s chair. Let him remember that Krennic had given him everything in this room, and in a way, owned it still.

As he waited, his fingers trailed restlessly over the broken half of the datapad. There was no denying the violence that Galen had enacted on it—the snapped inner workings were bared like crooked teeth, sharp enough to cut. Krennic ran the pad of his finger over their points and tried to feel whatever deep current of rage that had preceded its destruction. In the video feed, Galen’s face had been blank.

The notification from his comlink pinged. A moment later, Galen stepped through the door. When he saw Krennic sitting in his office chair, he stopped so quickly he almost stumbled. His expression, however, did not flicker.

After months of watching the security cams—feeling Galen’s eyes jab into the camera as if he were seeing so much more than a black lens—Krennic had forgotten that this would be the first time they had seen each other, face-to-face and alone, since the incident in the lab. He felt Galen’s presence like the pull of gravity. Like moving from floating to free-falling.

For a while Krennic simply inspected him. He saw lines and shadows on Galen’s face that seemed to have sprung up in the minutes since Krennic had seen the video, details too fine for the recorder to catch. Pulled out from behind the screen of a security feed, Galen stared at Krennic and _saw_ him. What it was Galen saw was a different matter.

“Galen,” Krennic said, and even his name felt different on his tongue. He’d said it so many times to other people that he’d forgotten how good it felt to call the man by his name.

If the familiarity touched him in any way, Galen did not show it. Instead he tilted his head back, jutted his chin and clasped his hands behind his back in the protocol for addressing a superior officer. “Director Krennic. This is a surprise.”

No inflection in his voice. No rough edges Krennic might grip, or lever open. And of course, no casual intimacy as flagrant as a first name.

Straight to business, then. Krennic held up half the broken datapad. “Destruction of Imperial property is a serious offense.”

Again, Galen’s eyes darted to the cameras. In a strange moment of vertigo, Krennic could feel himself meeting Galen’s gaze in the recording he would watch long after their conversation ended. “A minor accident. I was just about to sit down and fill out the form to request a replacement.” ~~~~

Krennic waved a hand. “You know I don’t care about that. You’ll have a new one within the day.”

Galen nodded, as close to thanks as Krennic expected him to come. As the silence drew out Krennic began to see the tension in the set of Galen’s shoulders, the thinness of his lips. Krennic shifted in Galen’s seat, making himself more comfortable before tossing the broken datapad onto the surface of the desk.

“What were you working on?”

For a moment Galen just stared at the snapped screen blankly. “I don’t remember.”

A smile wormed thinly over Krennic’s lips. “It seems it wasn’t going well.”

“I got distracted. I was careless. It won’t happen again.”

“You were never the sort to get careless or distracted before—not when it came to your work.”

“I haven’t been sleeping well.”

Krennic laughed. “You told the medic in your last checkup that you’ve been sleeping for nine hours a day. That’s not like you at all.”

This time Galen hesitated, as if carefully selecting his words. “The work is tiring.”

Krennic glanced back at the datapad again, his fingers drumming on the surface of the desk. Argonne had been right after all: Galen _was_ lying. That knowledge slid under Krennic’s skin like a needle laden with poison. He pressed he tongue against the back of his teeth as if he could push a smile onto his lips. “I hate to see you frustrated, struggling with this burden alone. It will be simple to extract the last files the datapad was viewing, and upload them onto a new one.” Krennic withdrew the datastick waiting in his pocket with a smile. “Let’s take a look at it together, shall we? Just like old times.” He began to fit it into the pad’s intact port.

“ _Wait_.”

Krennic looked up. Galen had taken a step forward, his hand reaching out as if to snatch the broken datapad out of Krennic’s fingers.

Something too sharp in Galen’s voice, the point of a hidden blade. Krennic waited for Galen to throw himself upon it. Galen turned his back, leaning on the desk with his hands folded in front of him and his shoulders hunched against Krennic’s stare.

“It was Lyra,” he said at last.

Funny, how that name alone could take Krennic’s grim triumph and gut it.

“You remember,” Galen continued, “how she was commissioned to hike around remote worlds with that enormous hologram camera on her back, so that people on the core planets could pay to view the scenery? I downloaded one of her videos from the server. I thought it might… help.”

Krennic could imagine it. The vast and empty landscape spilling out everywhere, with Lyra as an unseen ghost behind it all—nothing more than the jostle of a footstep and, if you listened very intently, the sound of a faint breath. To Galen, Lyra must have expanded to fill every rock and cranny on that desolate planet, to have become the world itself.

With a sigh, Krennic stood up and walked around the desk to settle down at Galen’s side. They both avoided each other’s gaze, but stared in the same direction. Galen hid his grief like a dog burying a bone for later, secretive and greedy and foolish.

“I’m sorry,” Krennic said softly. “I didn’t come here to reopen old wounds. I came because I was worried.”

He heard Galen take a steadying breath, one which trembled ever so slightly. “I’m the one who has been opening old wounds, Krennic. The work is a distraction, but it pulls me into the past—and there are too many ghosts waiting for me there.”

“You need an anchor.” Out of the corner of his eye Krennic glanced at him. Galen’s hands gripped the edge of the desk so tightly that the tendons stood up on the backs of his hands. His face, however, was smooth.

“Let me help you,” Krennic said suddenly. Galen’s snapped to his as if jerked on a wire. He wasn’t the only one who found it all too easy to slip back through time—Krennic stared at him and felt two and a half decades’ worth of memories bleeding into the air between them.

The flicker of distrust on Galen’s face was no memory at all, but it made Krennic’s shoulder twinge as if he’d set his thumb to the injury once again, had leaned in and spat the words into Krennic’s ear: _you are not my friend._ Krennic swallowed down his bitterness and forced himself to continue.

“This work is too great for any one man to tackle on his own—even you. Let me talk to you about it, as we used to. You know there’s no one better qualified to do so.”

Such a risk to ask it of him. Before seeing the security footage, Krennic never would have dared. Galen looked away, staring down at the floor with a faint crease between his eyes. “I suppose,” he began at last, “that a weekly meeting to discuss progress could be mutually beneficial.”

Krennic almost laughed. He almost clasped Galen by the shoulder. But months of icy distance made him careful—he was not likely to forget what Galen said at their last meeting. “I agree,” he said as lightly as he was able. “You may find me at your convenience. My office is always open to you.”

Galen nodded, and swallowed hard. Krennic stood after that, fighting down every urge to look at Galen, to touch him, one last time. There would be opportunities for that. Galen would remember why he needed their friendship before Krennic offered it to him freely.  

He would not get another chance. But he would not need one.

 

* * *

 

In the security footage that night, Krennic watched as Galen meticulously destroyed the data port on the broken pad, before discarding the last of its shards. A flicker of suspicion flared in Krennic’s chest—but of course, what pain other than family could have driven Galen to such an act? And what else could Galen possible have to hide?

A broken datapad was nothing. Let Galen exorcise his ghosts in whatever way he saw fit.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me 5 seconds before posting this chapter: "Aw shit, do engagement rings exist in a galaxy far far away? ............Wellp I guess they do now!" Sorry for any "historical" inaccuracies guys. I'm currently dying of the common cold and can't be held responsible for my actions ;)

There was no sound in the dark room but the whisper of Lyra's breathing. Galen lay awake and listened--if he strained his hearing he might detect the distant whir of traffic whipping past Coruscant's vertical cityscapes. But if he let himself begin to drift, the rise and fall of breathing filled the room until the walls themselves bulged with every inhalation.  

Beside him, Lyra's body was a warm weight on the mattress--too warm, in fact. Galen had slipped out from under the blankets and lay on top of them, every movement slow and careful so as not to wake her up. Even after the year they had been a couple, Galen had yet to grow accustomed to sleeping beside another person. He was beginning to think he never would. It was always late at night when his thoughts began to buzz, and he could only lie still resisting them for so long.  

Slowly, carefully, he propped himself up on his elbow to stare down at her face. Sleep always made her look tired, though whether that was a logical causation or a paradox, Galen wasn't sure. A strand of her dark hair cut across her cheek; Galen itched to brush it back, and wake her.

Orson had always laughed when Galen would contact him at hours such as these, saying Galen couldn't stand the thought that others might be sleeping while he paced his apartment bolt-awake. But then again, Orson had never been sleeping either.

The ring was on her finger now, where it had been since Galen slid it into place two weeks ago. Galen tried to summon the memory of her smile, more ecstatic than any he could have pictured on her usually serious face; the weight of her in his arms as he grinned like a madman and held her tight. But those were daytime thoughts, and the night made them swirl and crawl into uncertain shapes. He could see the ring glinting in the darkness like a single sleepless eye.

Keeping his movements slow, Galen sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, pausing after every rustle to listen. Lyra did not stir as he rose and slipped on a robe. He grabbed his datapad from the bedside table and left the close darkness of the bedroom behind.

For a while Galen sat at the table and toyed with his work; but he was excited, _worried_ , as well as wakeful, and the numbers and equations of a theoretical self-cycling power cell slipped away from his attention. Instead, his fingertips drifted to the comlink sitting on the table before him. He could have punched in the code with his eyes closed.

Once, he would not have hesitated. But things were different now.

On the day they had first met, Orson had taken Lyra's hand in both his own and smiled into her eyes as he apologized on Galen’s behalf: for all Galen had told him about her, the words of a scientist had done no justice to her loveliness. He had been charming, friendly, quick to smile or shepherd the conversation into some more interesting avenue. What he had not been was _himself_. Galen sat through the performance with a worm of doubt twisting in his stomach, and when he and Lyra had caught a speeder cab back to their apartment, Lyra had smiled a little stiffly and said that Orson had been—nice. Her true feelings were buried in that hesitation. She may not have known Orson as long as Galen had, but she recognized artifice when she saw it.

So it had been from the beginning. Hard to pinpoint exactly what it was that pushed the two of them apart, like the opposing ends of a magnet. Unseen, but no less powerful. Galen had never been a good judge of such things; he knew only that this was not how he had wanted it. Perhaps that was why he had not even told Orson yet that he and Lyra were to be married.

It was almost tempting, to break the news like this: over a comlink in the dead of night, a strange perversion of their old habit of late-night calls, so infrequent in recent months. When Galen tried to form the words he might say, again and again they sounded like an apology. But of course, he had nothing to be sorry for.

With a sigh, Galen tossed his comlink down. It clattered across the tabletop like a living thing, trying to get as far away from him as possible.

“Trouble sleeping?”

Galen jolted at the voice at his back, familiar yet unexpected. When he turned in his chair he saw Lyra standing in the doorway, her arms wrapped around her middle, pulling her sweater tighter to herself against the cold outside of their blankets. A faint smile lingered on her lips.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Galen said.

Lyra shrugged, drifting over to the table on slippered feet that whispered hoarsely against the floor. She sank down into the chair across from him, movements stiff with sleep. “And I didn’t mean to spy.”

Galen’s eyes settled on the comlink. It lay scant inches from where Lyra’s elbow rested on the table, but she did not reach for it. There was no suspicion in her eyes. They knew each other better than that.

“I was—” Galen began, and then stopped. What _was_ he planning to do? If he’d managed to make himself type in the proper code, wait to hear Orson’s voice—what had he intended to say? Slowly, Galen shook his head. A fragment of the truth would have to suffice. “I’m worried about Orson.”

“Orson?” And there it was. The little flicker in Lyra’s expression, concern rippling into something else. “What about him?”

Galen’s fingers toyed with the end of his datapad's stylus, tapping its point on the table with as little force as possible. Even now, trying to find the words. “Things have been different between us for some time. I know there are things he isn’t telling me.”

With a scrape, Lyra stood and dragged her chair around the table until she was sitting at Galen’s side. Gently, she took his hand. Not to hold it—she turned it over in her own to inspect its contours, running her fingertips over the tendons, the knuckles, the lines on his palms. She kept her eyes on his hand, but Galen could see the thoughts stirring beneath her lowered lids. “When did things change?”

“Difficult to say.”

Perhaps Lyra felt the way Galen’s fingers twitched at the half-lie. She looked up into his face with a wry, unhappy smile. “It was me, wasn’t it?”

Galen’s fingers twitched guiltily once more. He struggled to keep his expression blank beneath Lyra’s scrutiny. “Why would you think that?”

“It’s alright, Galen. You don’t have to protect my feelings. We both know that Orson and I have never gotten along.” Lyra’s hand tightened around his own. “But that doesn’t matter right now. What has you worried?”

It all came surging up behind Galen’s eyes: the careful evasions when Galen asked Orson about his work, growing smoother and better-practiced by the day. The way Orson stared at him for too long or in too strange a way, as if searching for something Galen did not know how to give. The dark circles under Orson’s eyes, the tremor in his hand—the mounting evidence that something was siphoning his sleep and regular meals, consuming him from the inside, like a parasite. And where once they’d shared every aspect of their work, had pulled each other’s theories apart and rebuilt them better, together—now Orson would not even admit what he was working on.

And of course, there was the night when Galen had first told Orson that he had found someone—found Lyra. Galen could still remember the way something had closed behind Orson’s eyes. Like a door to a bright room, little more than an outline now. What it was or where it might have led, Galen was not certain. He only knew that there was something missing when Orson looked at him now.

Lyra’s face was open, waiting. Galen held her gaze for a moment longer as he struggled to find some piece of the tangled, baffling truth he could cut off and offer to her. It was no easier now than it had been moments before, staring at his comlink and fumbling mutely at the words to make his closest friend understand him once more.

“There’s something he’s not telling me,” was all Galen said at last, defeat sloughing his shoulders and dragging his eyes down. “I never used to believe we had secrets from each other.”

Lyra’s fingers settled lightly under his chin, raising his eyes to hers. “Everyone has secrets,” she said with a faint smile. “Even you and me.”

Galen’s smile came easier when it answered Lyra’s. He raised the hand she’d been holding to stroke the side of her cheek, and at last brush the errant strand of hair behind her ear. “I think you’d find my secrets rather boring.”

Lyra leaned forward to press a kiss to the tip of Galen’s nose. “Maybe one day we’ll find out.” Her hand covered his, and as she stood, she pulled him up with her. “For now, whatever answers you’re looking for won’t be put off by a bit of sleep.”

“You’re probably right,” Galen murmured, letting himself be tugged along behind her. He left his datapad and his comlink lying discarded on the table.

“Of course I’m right,” Lyra replied with one of her quick grins. As they settled back onto the bed together she pressed herself up against his back, warm and soft as sleep. “In the morning, we can figure this out together.”

Galen mumbled something in the affirmative, letting his eyes drift closed. And yet even as he felt Lyra’s body relax into sleep within moments, a skill she’d perfected during her long assignments spent camping on uncomfortable rock, Galen still lingered on the threshold of sleep. He thought again about the datapad, the comlink, sitting in the dark table. A problem left unsolved. And it had always been the night which delivered Galen’s answers in the past, in the wake of a sardonic smile and flash of bright blue eyes.

Lyra’s hand curled into his own, and he clasped it until he could feel the hard outline of her ring pressing against his fingers. Only then did Galen sleep.


End file.
